The Fox & Fen Hall was packed well beyond what any of them had expected. Word had traveled fast. While the sleepy village surrounding the venue didn’t even have a gas station, somehow it had conjured a sold-out, standing-room-only crowd. People had traveled from the next towns over — hell, the next counties over — for a chance to see the infamous werewolf rock band that had torn up Glastonbury just days earlier.
And they weren’t quiet about it.
When the house lights dimmed and the fog began to spill onto the low stage, the crowd erupted. Not in polite claps or excited murmurs — this was a howl. Dozens of throats lifted to the ceiling and let loose with full-voiced howls in response to the band’s name being called.
Gabriel bounded onstage first, bass slung low, flashing that wild grin that melted hearts and made teens scream. He howled right back at the crowd, triggering another surge of energy.
But something was off.
At first it was subtle — just a weird energy from a few faces near the front. A girl in full cosplay with fake fur ears and a collar that read Good Boy. A guy in a werewolf mask from a 1980s horror flick, snapping his plastic jaws and growling at Gabriel like it was funny.
Then Gabriel spotted the sign.
It wasn’t big. Just a piece of white foam board held at chest height. Block letters scrawled in red paint:
WOLVES BELONG IN CAGES
His claws curled tighter around the neck of his bass. The next note hit harder than it should’ve. Thane noticed from his position side stage, headphones half-on. The pack knew each other too well.
Gabriel’s playing faltered.
He stared down, zeroing in on the man holding the sign. Late fifties, smug face, clearly there just to provoke. Gabriel’s chest rose sharply. The crowd started murmuring — confused, shifting. Mark was already stepping off his lighting console platform. Cassie turned mid-verse, catching Gabriel’s expression.
Then it happened.
A roar — not from Gabriel, but from the side of the stage.
Thane.
He had never moved like that during a show before. One moment he was shadowed behind the stage rigging; the next, he launched over a monitor, landing with a thunderous slam in front of the heckler. The crowd parted like the sea — silent, stunned — as Thane stalked up to the man with icy blue eyes burning.
“OUT. NOW.”
He didn’t yell.
He growled it.
A sound that shook floorboards. That cut through microphones. That triggered something primal in the human brain. The man with the sign went sheet-white. A dark wet stain spread down one pant leg. The crowd recoiled as security burst in from both aisles — two men flanking, one grabbing the man’s shoulder and dragging him away while he mumbled something unintelligible, his legs barely supporting him.
For a full three seconds, the venue was dead silent.
Then someone screamed, “THANE FOR PRESIDENT!”
And the room exploded.
Cheers. Howls. Applause so thunderous it rattled the ancient stone rafters. The band recovered almost instantly — Cassie launched into the next line like nothing had happened. Gabriel hit the downbeat with fresh fury, all that rage redirected into the performance. It was the tightest, most aggressive they’d played in weeks.
The crowd? Ferocious. People were screaming, crying, throwing up hearts with their hands. Emily was in the wings, phone in hand, already uploading clips to the Feral Eclipse social media with tags like #WerewolfRights and #ThaneSnapped.
Within minutes, “Wolves Belong in Cages” was trending — but not the way the heckler had hoped. Fans across the world reposted the clip of Thane’s leap, slowed down to cinematic levels, setting it to orchestral soundtracks and rock guitar solos. A remix of Thane’s “OUT. NOW.” growl became a viral TikTok audio within the hour.
And backstage, after the set, Thane just quietly walked over to Gabriel and handed him a bottle of water.
“You good now?”
Gabriel blinked, still breathing hard, but nodded. “I wasn’t gonna leap. I swear.”
Thane gave a rare, sharp grin. “That’s why I beat you to it.”